


Leather and Rope

by Mirabai0821



Series: Agony and Ecstasy [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Choking, D/s Relationships, Dirty Talk, F/M, Flogging, Hardcore BDSM, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Denial, Pain, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Subspace, Switching, rope play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5935147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/pseuds/Mirabai0821
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ser knows his precious girl is in need of Correction.</p><p>Ser Corrects her.</p><p>Precious girl enjoys it very <i>very</i> much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather and Rope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Domina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina/gifts), [miraphora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/gifts).



> Oh hey. Here we are again. Thanks for all y'alls reviews and kind words for Oil and Leather  
> Here we are again. Switching things up.
> 
> Many profuse thanks to Domina and Miraphora for helping me write this, bothering with my inanity at odd hours of the day.

He dresses her by undressing her. There is a fundamental tenderness to him, universal, default even. When he is with her, always is he gentle--as though she is made of glass gossamer--as though she might break--even when he is breaking her--ever is he gentle.

 Her Ser issues simple commands. 

Sit 

Lift. 

Rise. 

Breathe. 

“Breathe precious girl.” 

Evelyn takes a deep tremulous breath and the smile that cracks across his face like morning sunshine banishing night’s darkness makes her heart ache to please him more. 

“Good girl. My good sweet precious girl.” 

She loves that Ser is far more liberal with his praises as he is with his hands. As he removes her clothing, piece by piece, his hands roam everywhere. Under her chin, across the span of her shoulder blades, he digs the pads of his fingers into her flesh following the line of her collarbones, taking pause where one line hitches, where a behemoth’s blow severed the bone and it healed imperfectly. There he plants a kiss above the jagged scar. 

Her skin is his firmament, the earth to his sun, it is so soft, it shines in the candlelight, smooth and sweet and unspoiled. 

Ser will delight in its ruination. 

But first Ser touches, everywhere. Blunted nails curl under the swell of her breasts. Ser thumbs her nipples, bends to taste them, drawing one into his mouth then the other while she observes Ser’s command to Stay. Legs open, wrists crossed behind the back. 

Ser allows her to moan and beg. Allows her to look and wiggle and twitch. Ser is permissive, Ser is kind, Ser is so very good to her. 

Ser hears it when her nails scratch and scrape against the coverlet as he takes his delight out upon her upper body, furrows of teeth marks dotting the meat of her shoulders, the back of her arm, her breasts, but he's barely begun, this is merely prologue. 

Ser rises from his feast and with both hands takes hold of her face, cradles it, glass gossamer. The pads of his fingers ghost her cheekbones. Ser is unmistakable in his emotion, there is so much love, devotion in his molten stare, hot like a furnace stoking the fire inside her to unbearable degree. 

They are made of love, Ser and his precious girl. 

“You will love how I ruin you.” Ser says voice thick and choked with emotion, as though he just pledged undying worship rather than her destruction. 

Ser kisses her, moaning as her mouth parts eagerly for him, trembling with how easily she submits. His precious girl, his treasure. 

Ser’s hand tangles in her knotted ropes of hair and pulls, tearing her mouth from his. She yelps, startled but is otherwise largely unharmed. 

“I love you.” Ser says with such care as his free hand palms her neck before pressing a thumb into her throat. 

Evelyn sucks in a hasty breath that wheezes then quiets as his mouth seals over hers again. 

Ser is harder this time. As his tongue pushes inside her mouth, the hand at her neck squeezes. She feels her heart thudding hard in her ears, sound dulls, and the edges of her vision whiten. Pressure builds, the hands behind her back start to twitch, the flight response triggering as her air is smothered, and smothered, and smothered until it stops. 

Ser is still kissing, hand closed around her throat waiting for the moment her instinct to survive is tripped. He feels her body spasm in an attempt to overpower and overcome and nearly cries when she lets go of it, relinquishing it to him. Gifting to him her fear. 

Ser releases and air rushes into her with a gasping reedy wheeze. He remains within arm’s reach as she collects her breath in a fit of hoarse coughing. After she's taken a full gulp of water from the glass he’s tipped to her lips, she smiles at him. Her eyes, reddened only just, reddened only by tears and not by violence or hate or disappointment, eyes reddened only by the _heavy_ application of love, through those eyes, she smiles. 

“Thank you Ser.” Her voice whistles a bit, wind filtered through tree branches. He’d be concerned if she hadn’t already asked him to ‘make me scream until I can’t anymore.’ And she always asks so sweetly especially when her mouth is full of his cock. 

“I love you so much precious girl.” He says as he ties the black silk around her head, kissing both shuttered eyelids. 

She shivers, not chilled but vibrating with feeling. Every word saturates her flesh, cures it, he is a kiln and she is fired within him. And when she emerges, she'll be something new, whole and complete. 

“Ready?” 

She nods. 

“Need anything?” 

She asks for wine and he chuckles tipping his glass to her mouth since her hands are still behind her back bound only by instruction. 

His chuckle grows into a laugh when her mouth crinkles into a frown. 

“You asked for wine.” He admonishes, and for this one brief moment Ser is Cullen again as he kisses the corner of her displeased mouth. 

“Yeah _good_ wine.” Evelyn complains. “Not the sour skunk piss you drink.”

He allows her one more playful kiss with a little lick to the bead of merlot her lips missed before the mantle of command resettles. “Mind your tone.” 

Ser never yells, never has to, his menace is soluble in his conversational tones, distilled, concentrated. 

“Yes.” 

“Yes _what_?” 

“Yes _Ser._ ’" 

“Good girl.”

She hears the rope before he lets her feel it, listening to the dry crackle of the fibers. She hears a metal tingle, knowing without sight he's threaded his rope through a discretely hidden ring attached to an anchor plate higher up one of the walls in his quarters. 

His quarters because when he makes her wail, it carries. Dorian is protective, Ser made the mistake of disciplining her in her own quarters once. The bruise along his jaw took a month to heal. 

She is the artist with the rope, capable of tying him into all kinds of twisted configurations, harnesses and braces designed to tighten as he struggled, knots tied in strategic places to pleasure him as he pleasured her. But he is a farmer's son and is not without his own skill. Whether trussing a pig for the spit or a woman for her correction, he knows enough to service his needs and his pleasures. 

With his first rope ready, he takes a second one, a shorter length folded double. “Present.” 

She obliges his order, finally allowed to move her hands from behind her. She presents her two arms to him, hands clenched into fists side by side like two parallel columns. He kisses the insides of both wrists before draping the rope over them, over then under, careful to ensure the consecutive rows lay side by side and not overlapping. There is space between her hands as he loops the cord around them, space he closes with a very simple but secure knot, the bite, or folded end of the rope, free for him to loop a finger through. 

As he pulls, further satisfied by the strength in his knot, he orders, “Stand, face the wall.” 

She rises from her spot on the bed to comply and he notes with a small measure of pride the patch of wetness her cunt left behind. 

Through the looped end of his knot, Ser draws through the dangling end of the hanging rope. The ring attached to the wall acts like a pivot or a pulley so when he pulls, her arms rise. And he keeps pulling until she is stretched enough so that her elbows don't bend and she is comfortably flush against the wall. They've hung a tapestry there, something old and dull in its subject but so soft her skin doesn't abrade against the masonry. 

On his crueler nights, he takes it down. 

Now she is fully dressed, nude and trussed. 

And now. 

Now he waits. 

In his simple chair, he sits, delighting as she begins to struggle. Once when this was New and she was like to test his knots and his patience, she wriggled and fought so hard she freed herself.

  
He grins, sipping his sour skunk piss, glutting in how he _tanned_ her hide after that. Remembering how she had to postpone her departure for the Forbidden Oasis, claiming illness, spending her entire convalescence in his arms. 

She twists and writhes for Ser, testing his bonds, ensuring that they are inescapable. For her part, it’s to guarantee that in the middle, that when he takes his whip to her back even her most extreme attempt at escape won’t lodge her loose. 

For his part, he enjoys to watch her struggle. Ser appreciates her form, her craftsmanship. She is well built, thick and curved at waist and thigh and just about every other place. Muscled too. He loves to watch her muscles tense and twist and strain--that was one of the first things he noticed about her, how her legs clenched to hold fast to her mount. He recalls with boyish embarrassment how he used to jerk himself thinking about those legs clenching as she mounted him. 

He needn’t fantasize anymore, but the memory holds warmth.

  
Ser appreciates the art in her flesh, appreciates the art he will _make_ of her flesh. He lets her move and test and strain, waiting to see the weakness in his bind. And as she struggles, grunting and pulling, he takes stock of his tools. 

Where another kind of artist arranges an array of brushes and paints, he arranges a selection braided leather. 

His first tool is only an arm’s span long, reaching from the tip of his middle finger to the crook of his elbow. The handle is short, into which is braided several strips of plain cowhide, a cat of many more tails than nine. It’s a novel thing, but something he’s not too fond of, used for when he just has to have _something_ to strike her with. It’s an implement for lighter, simpler tortures, something Ser employs to swat at her magnificent behind as her cunt is sealed around his cock. She herself also doesn’t seem to favor it, whenever Ser makes her choose her punishment, she rarely ever picks it. 

His precious girl has thicker skin. 

Skin better served by ... _yes_ that.

It's a tool she uses when she does her leatherworking. It has a long thin metal handle and a toothed wheel that spins free and easy on a tiny axel at the end. 

Whether used on leather or skin, it's original purpose is preserved here, to score the flesh. Cullen runs the wheel on the meat of his bicep, skin crackling with cold prickling fire that lingers just the barest second after the tool is removed. The metal teeth poke but don't pierce and the sensation is maddening on well welted flesh. 

He smiles, imagining her screams. 

But for all the delight he takes in his scoring wheel, in the wooden spoon he stole from the cook (sometimes a hand--even his--gets tired and sore), in the leather riding crop he actually never used for riding anything other than her, in his beloved bullwhip, for all his tools, toys, none were more so important than the ones that weren’t toys at all.

There on the table taking equal space and equal if not greater presence was a clear glass jar filled with a soothing gel squeezed from a succulent plant, there to soothe the abrasions and cool the fiery welts. He has bandages in the rare case he draws blood, it’s never his goal, neither of them enjoy that kind of play, but they are there still, just in case. A dagger lies, sharp and gleaming and unlike her jeweled one, this is not for flesh but for hemp, to cut her free in case things go wrong. 

But Ser is the greatest precaution, the greatest tool of all. He _knows_ , has learned to read her, learned to listen and anticipate and guide. Ser knows because he asked, because they discussed, he knows her limits, her likes, and knows that neither are to be discarded no matter the moment. 

She struggles still, thinking she felt a give somewhere in the rope. Robbed of sight, she feels for the weakness, rocking rhythmically from side to side thinking she is wearing loose a lazy tie. 

She isn’t. 

But she doesn’t know that. 

His tools assembled, Ser sets to work. 

“Stop that.” He calls softly, frowning when she gives no heed to the command either unhearing or ignoring. 

“Stop that.” He says again, he never yells, never will yell. He doesn’t need to and he knows that it’s Bad for her. 

Unwilling and annoyed with the idea of having to repeat himself, Ser reaches for his most favorite toy, a four foot long length of sturdy, braided, druffalo hide. 

His bullwhip. 

He lets the whip sound his final command, cracking it absolutely no where near her flesh, he doesn’t need to, the wake of the throw, the sizzling crack of the popper is enough to still her to absolute silence. 

This is his best toy he never really uses. He plays with its threat, with its potential, but never it’s actual. Ser can strike the wings from a fly before the fly notices. If inclined he could flay the flesh from her bones and she’d only feel it the morning next. He knows the whip _scares_ her, she enjoys pain but fears the agony such an implement would inflict. She gives him her fear, that is his purpose--to take her fear-- but what she can consciously bequeath is never enough, never all of it, so the whip and its _threat_ take the rest of it, presses it out of her skin like crushed grapes he laps like wine. 

She is stilled in her fear, she struggles no more, she makes no sound, not even… 

“Breathe precious girl.” He reminds her watching the tension stretch and expand across her shoulders as she does. 

He keeps the whip in his hand and reaches for his old and faithful crop threading his hand through a cord at the handle so he needn't put it down if he wants to use both hands. 

And he does. 

With a very practiced swirl of his wrist, he makes the whip circle his body, hands free now to touch. 

Ser is tactile. Ser runs his hands over her heated flesh humming with barely contained delight. 

“You are so beautiful. So wonderful.” 

She feels the body of the whip as Ser presses himself almost flush to her back. Her knees knock together when one hand grasps her neck again, squeezing but soft enough to be just a threat. He whispers now.

  
“Think of how much pain you are going to be in, my precious girl. You’re going to love it, every minute of it. I'm going to make scream until you pass out.” 

He won't, never does, she is always long gone before he can get that far. 

“I'm going to…” 

The crop bearing hand rises back and falls on the side of her left buttock. She makes no noise, barely tenses, that was more for his warm-up than her pain. 

He blows a soft whispered laugh in her ear. “Jaded already? Maker how far you’ve fallen into such sin. I can remember when the mere swat of my hand was enough.” 

Ser swats her again to prove a point, but this one causes discomfort. It is hard to bear a strike, even a benign one when applied to the same area of skin. But he pricks her pride at the mention of her intransigence, she won't holler, not yet. But he strikes her again and again. Several stinging thwacks that makes the flesh ripple and quake. 

“How long will it take, precious girl, before you're panting? Let's count. We’ll start with 20.” 

Her cunt flexes, unable to withstand the assault on her ass and ears. He whispers filth, absolutely soul damning filth, as she counts the strikes. 

“12 was a good number slut, count it again!” 

Thwack! 

The names are like phantom pains, they sting but they don't. They never fail to arouse her but never hurt her because of the love implicit within them. He calls her things he never uttered against Meredith even on the worst days, but here and now they fall easy and free and _effective_ because they are spoken with _love_. 

“Good, you are so very good my sweet whore. Now count it again and thank me.” Ser calls, making her keen softly. 

“Twe--” she lets go of the moan her pride had been hanging on to as Ser delivers another withering blow. By now, even her dark skin must be red, as is his hand. 

She’s starting to sweat, feels it beading in her back. She feels it well under the fingers he has splayed across her neck. Feels it collect where every part of his body lays against hers. 

Ser releases her neck, she feels him shuffle before a long and rigid object makes its way between her thighs, Ser pushes his crop back and forth, walking it higher and higher still. 

Thwack! The flat of his hand falls _again_ on the same spot he’s been worrying like a dog chewing for the last morsel of meat stuck on a troublesome bone. 

“Difficult I know, but keep yours legs shut, whore. And you have not finished counting.” 

Her numbers tremble and bleed, she mutters them as her legs shake, a full blown sweat has broken out across her body. She cannot concentrate with Ser so close, able to smell him and _feel_ him, the threat of the bullwhip still omnipresent as it leaves its crosshatch pattern behind in her back. 

“I cannot hear you. Speak clearly now and count it again or do we have to repeat the lesson on diction.” 

She is blindfolded. 

She can still _see_ his grin. 

Oh how she wails at that… 

The body of the crop is now pressed flush to her cunt, Ser rocks it back and forth, the thick column of leather stimulating her pearl and pussy, as he continues to smacks her ass. She makes it to twenty and he instructs her to keep counting.

 “Keep going, and I _dare you,_ precious thing, to come without my permission.” 

He rotates the crop, dragging the patterned leather against her. He stops his blows for a moment, concentrating only on walking her toward the edge of her sanity, to give her flesh a moment to recover, a moment to _register_ the fire he’s laid there. 

Ser allows her to beg, a boon she uses now. “Please, please, please! Please, I’m so close. Ah!” 

His free hand resumes punishment with a hard, prickling slap. Her legs tighten around the crop, clenching for any kind of relief, but the peak of her pleasure softens, the pain dulls it just a bit, smooths the jagged edges before he serrates them again, twisting the crop against her cunt. 

“Ser.” Her voice breaks. “I can’t. I can’t please.” 

He laughs, enjoying it when he feels her thighs tighten on the crop again. “You forgot to count. Start over.” 

The wail she makes is music, one his mind will sing to him whenever she’s away. She starts from one and his assault on her cunt never relents. 

By 10 she’s crying literal tears, the pain and the pleasure overhwhelming. Had Ser allowed her, she would have come so many times, but whenever she’s close, he strikes her to bring her back from that brink. She sobs into the tapestry, her begging coming out in long strings of incoherency. 

She hasn’t noticed he’s withdrawn the crop from her, hasn’t noticed that he’s flush against her again. She only notices when it's his fingers this time, swirling at the smooth nub of flesh between her legs, when his breath is hot in her ears and his hand equally hot against her ass. 

The assault is relentless and on two fronts now. Ser strikes and strokes at the same time. Ser harmonizes the pain and the pleasure where they were once discordant and syncopated, one either right before or right after the other. Ser makes them come together, makes the music new. 

“You’re so pretty when you come, precious girl, give it to me. Show me. Come for me.” 

That is a command, one she heartily obeys as she locks and freezes and screams. It is sharp, it stings, it makes the hairs on her arms stand on end, she rises to her tiptoes, screaming before she falls, and he catches her before she can pull the ropes taught. 

Ser rights her, sets her on her feet, takes a moment to kiss her ear. 

The crop dangles from his wrist, and he grabs it. 

“Count them!” 

He loves to make her come, that is his joy, but on these nights, it is a requirement.  A prelude to the real _joy_ he intends to bring her, that he can only do once her body is primed and flooded with pleasure. 

Ser does not give her a limit to count to, he simply makes her count. 

He lands the crop on her back, across her thighs, on her ass, the back of her arms. He never goes above the neck and is wary about taking his toys to the front of her body. But he can lay waste to her back and he does. 

He puts his whole force into it, it is like striking water, the pleasure dissipates the pain and makes it ripple across her. He doesn’t much care that she slips in counting, she says 22 twice, skips thirty-one and starts to slur at forty. He _listens,_ its when she stops, when she _can’t count_ no matter how wrong the number…. 

Her knees bend a bit, her arms hand limp and loose pulling her rope almost taught. She can’t hold her head up anymore and is convinced the bones in her body have melted. Every strike is like a pull, Ser reaches for her soul, crop cutting through skin and muscle and bone and organ to her core, and Ser’s hands, when they arc back to deliver another blow, his fingers come free with bits of her. 

Until she is pulled whole from her body. 

And floats away.

She’s gone now, slipped away. Neither of them can explain it fully. He’s brought here usually at the end of an intensive endurance session, where she’s kept him tied and bound in strenuous position, body edged on ultimate pleasure until it feels like he’s looking down at his own flesh. 

He felt the hand of the Maker. She made him see his God. He shivers with the memory but only lets it grip him for a moment--too much work to be done to be lost in a reverie. 

He unties her, lets her loose and she falls limp and soundless into his arms. Dead weight but so very _light_ he carries her to their bed crooning, lavishing her with abundant praise. 

“Good girl. You are so wonderful, you’ve done so well. I am so pleased.  You’ve pleased me so well. I love you Evelyn, I love you so much.” 

She looks drugged, as if the words have bounced off her ears, but he knows they’ve stuck. Down into her flesh, burying themselves, rooting in her soul past conscious recognition, sinking into implicit knowledge. He would not make her know it, but feel it. Like this, she _feels_ it. 

Her wrists aren’t bad tonight, she hasn’t pulled so hard to make the skin ashen or red. So instead of the plant juice he reaches for the butter squeezed from cocoa pods, creamy, yellow, and sweet smelling. He applies it to her wrists and all the places his crop has been but not before he’s spun the Scoring Wheel on her back a couple of times for the _shriek_ of delight it causes.

 He’s done in earnest now, he gathers her and holds and waits. 

She comes back by degrees, drawn away from whatever aether she’s floating in by the soothing tone and timber of her Ser. 

“There’s my girl.” He kisses her forehead, at her temple where her hair and her flesh meet. He kisses both, loving both, a delightful if not greedy two-for-one. 

Her arms move, they wrap around him and 

She sobs. 

A sideffect of the euphoria. He knows enough now to not be concerned, but at first, her tears frightened him, made him think he wrought amiss. But as she kissed him with tears streaming, thanking him with between babbles, he learned, and didn’t worry so much after that. 

“Thank me.” He says at last, smiling. 

“Thank you Cullen.” 

She waits for correction and when it does not come, they know the night is over. 

“I would ask, Evelyn, that you stay a bit longer. I do not want you to fall when you are away from me.” 

He speaks of the Crash. It happens when the blood runs dry of the intensity that suffuses it after such a session. It happens to both of them, whether giving or receiving Correction, and it is _awful_. 

During those times, they are sweet to one another. They are _always_ sweet to one another when the eyes are watching of course, but--according to Dorian--they are extra saccharine when one is in the midst of a Crash. 

The Iron Bull calls him a hypocrite. Dorian agrees and says no more. 

“I’ll take that,” her answer is flippant, but she has real fear of what she would be like if Crashing without him. Unable to hear his words, touch him, be assured that she is his _love_ and not his _toy_. 

Cullen hums, pleased. He would have made her stay if she refused, but it was nice to have her agree on her own. 

“Are you alright? Do you hurt? There is more of that butter if you need it.” 

She shakes her head against his chest. “It's all good hurt, let me keep it.” 

He does. 

And promises more later as the both float away to the Fade.


End file.
